


Before the Fire Dies

by thewriterinallofus



Series: Life is a Song That Goes on Forever [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drinking, Hospitals, M/M, Nightmares, Reincarnation (if you squint), Suicide Attempt, Suicide Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 14:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3071507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewriterinallofus/pseuds/thewriterinallofus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Grantaire fight. This is a fact of life. Their fights get ugly. Again, a fact of life. However, Enjolras takes it a step too far, and things take a turn for the worst. Will Enjolras be too late, or will he reach Grantaire before the fire dies?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before the Fire Dies

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work for Les Misérables, so go easy on me. If you didn't read the tags, then I remind you of the trigger warning. Suicide attempts are a major part of this fic. The title is from Billy Joel's "Rosalinda's Eyes."  
> I don't own Les Misérables or anything by Billy Joel.  
> What I do own is the plot, and any mistakes, because I am un-betaed.

“Where the hell is he?”

“Enj, don’t be rash,” Combeferre warned.

The blonde rounded on the philosopher. “Don’t be rash? Did you seriously just say that? This is the sixth rally in a row that he hasn’t shown up for. And this one was actually his idea.”  
It wasn’t helping the matter that the last time the revolutionary and the cynic had seen each other, they had fought.

_“The elite might take the advice of Lao Tzu. ‘If you want to govern the people, you must place yourself below them.’ Instead, they continue to propagate their own self-interests, leaving the people destitute.”_

_None of the Amis said anything, having heard this particular spiel many times._

_“Perhaps,” a voice said, “Our fearless leader would do well to consider the latter half of that quote. ‘If you want to lead people, you must learn how to follow them.’ Can’t you see that we’re bored of your idealistic ideas?”_

_“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”_

_Grantaire snorted. “Again, quotes. Do you ever come up with your own ideas and beliefs?”_

_Enjolras gritted his teeth. “At least I have some beliefs. At least I try.”_

_Grantaire laughed his eyes burning. “You try with the fire of a French Revolutionary. You would lay down your life for the most petty of causes. I admire your will to succeed, I really do. Forgive a cynic, but you are far too idealistic, Apollo.”_

_“And you mistake cynicism for realism. You slander our efforts because, Grantaire, you are incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, of dying. You’re good for nothing, fool. What good are you?”_

_If Enjolras had bothered to look, he might have noticed the light in Grantaire’s eyes die. “You will see.” With that, he stormed out of the Musain, the door slamming behind him._

_Enjolras, though thoroughly angry, was shaken to the core by that door slam._

Courf laid a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “It probably wasn’t a good time for him to come.”

Enjolras scoffed and threw his friend’s hand away. “It’s never a good time for Grantaire. He’s too busy painting and drinking his life away. You’re only defending him because none of you wanted to be at the rally today.”

“That’s not fair to him, Enjolras, and you know it,” Courf scolded.

“Screw what’s fair to him! It’s not fair to us that we have to work twice as hard to get anything done because he has to blow holes through anything we do.”

Ferre, who was usually calm, whipped around, his eyes ablaze. “And you wouldn’t have to work so hard if you’d listen to him once in a while! You can be wrong, Enjolras! Half the time he makes excellent points; points that, if you ever took them into consideration, could probably strengthen your argument. He just wants you to succeed.”

Enjolras couldn’t contain his laughter. “He wants me to succeed? That’s a load of horsecrap and you know it, Ferre. He has to be the most cynical man on the planet.”

“You are blind! Blind! Grantaire is there because you are, moron! Where most people would leave you if you failed, he would stay. He. Would. Stay!”

Unable to come up with a counterargument, Enjolras stormed away.

* * *

 

He wandered around the city for a while, staring at his feet, and muttering curses under his breath. He knew that he’d stepped out of line. Grantaire hadn’t deserved the browbeating he’d received, and Enjolras had no right to slander the artist when he wasn’t around to defend himself. Besides, if the blonde revolutionary was honest with himself, Combeferre was right; Grantaire’s points, while cynical, were often true. In fact, Enjolras had come to appreciate the cynic’s comments, because, intentionally or not, they strengthened Enjolras’ argument. The blonde never really meant for his words to be so cutting, but he stopped thinking about the consequences of his words when he was angry. When Enjolras finally looked up he found that his feet had carried him to Grantaire’s apartment.

He stood staring at Grantaire’s door. He didn’t know why he was here. He should leave.

He was just about to turn and go, when he noticed that the door was slightly ajar.

Grantaire may not take proper care of himself, but he wasn’t that careless.

Enjolras swung the door open, calling, “Grantaire?”

He walked into the living room, and stopped short upon seeing a scrapbook of pictures, an empty bottle of whiskey, and a crumpled piece of paper on the floor.

Enjolras slowly walked over to the odd collection. A quick survey of the photos showed that most of them were of R’s parents.

He gingerly plucked the wad of paper off of the carpet. The blonde smoothed it out, revealing a hastily scrawled note.

Enjolras’ heart stopped. “Please don’t let this be what I think this is.”

**To the poor bastard that finds me,**

**I’m sorry. That’s what these things are supposed to say, right?**

**Oh hell. It’s not like the person this note’s intended for is ever going to read it.**

**Whatever. You’re rallying, and the rest of your merry band of misfits is with you. It’s not like I expected to be top priority. I can hear you now: “The people, Grantaire. Get your head in the game.”**

**I guess I’m doing this because I have nothing left worth believing in. You were right. I don’t believe in your causes. I’ve had a crap life, and am a cynic. Forgive me for not fitting in your revolutionary, idealistic utopia. Don’t beat yourself up though; revolutionaries like you and cynics like me don’t belong in the same universe.**

**You’re never going to need me. It’ll be easier for both of us this way. Dionysus will drink himself into one final stupor from which he will never wake, and Apollo can bring light to the dark world, his nine Muses behind him.**

**You were wrong though. Even cynics must believe in something. Even me. How fitting that the very man to accuse me of disbelief should be the basis of my one belief. I doubt that one man’s efforts can change the world, but if anyone can do it, I believe it will be you.**

**I need you to know something. I was only at those stupid meetings because of you. I thought only of you. My will was yours. I lived for you, and now I die for you, if I don’t find a way to screw that up, too. Remember that, okay? When I’m gone, Enjolras, remember that: I believed in you.**

**Grantaire x**

Enjolras dropped the note like it had burned him, his whole body numb.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras called again. He began to search the apartment.

When he entered the small art studio he found Grantaire, both his wrists slashed open, blood soaking the carpet. Enjolras’ heart felt like it’d been wrenched from his chest with a rusty chainsaw. “Grantaire!”

Suddenly, Enjolras realized the date. The photo album and the line about being “top priority” made sense. One year ago today, Grantaire’s parents and sister were killed in a car crash coming home during a blizzard.

They’d left Aire friendless on the one day he needed les Amis more than anything.

No. He’d planned the rally for today. He’d left Aire alone. This was his fault.

Enjolras ran to Grantaire’s kitchen and grabbed two clean-looking hand towels. He tied them tightly around Grantaire’s wrists, in a fairly vain attempt to stymie the blood flow.

He yanked out his phone and dialed the appropriate emergency number.

“What is your emergency?”

“It’s my friend. He’s cut his wrists...a-and...and there’s a lot of blood.”

“Is he conscious? Does he have a pulse? Where are you?”

He swallowed thickly. “No. Uh..” He pressed two fingers against Grantaire’s neck. “Barely. It’s really thready.”

“Where are you?” The operator repeated her previous question.

Enjolras gave her Grantaire’s address. “Please.” A sob caught in his throat, and his voice was just above a whisper. “It’s my fault. He’s gonna die. You have to help me.”

“Sir, the EMT’s will be there soon. Please try to stay calm, and stay on the line.”

“I will.” He gently laid the phone on the floor, and bent his mouth to Grantaire’s ear. “You stay alive. You hear me? Do not leave me.”

He cradled Grantaire’s head in his lap. “Please. Don’t go.”

* * *

 

Enjolras sat for hours in the waiting room, sorting his thoughts.

He was so confused. Any anger he’d harbored toward Grantaire that day, any anger ever, had dissipated as soon as he’d read that note.

Enjolras may be oblivious to many things, but he wasn’t an idiot. Grantaire had pretty clearly spelled out for whom the note was intended.

The note was for him. The one person Grantaire admired. The one person he believed in.

One line kept haunting Enjolras. “…and now I die for you.”

Grantaire had taken his Apollo’s cutting, thoughtless words to heart. He actually believed that Enjolras wanted him gone.

The blonde’s chest grew tight; he couldn’t breathe, and his vision was blurring around the edges. He stretched out across three chairs, closing his eyes, hoping to keep the world in equilibrium.

Voices clamored in Enjolras’ head. He couldn’t pick out specific words. It was like being in a high school cafeteria.

Suddenly one voice stood out among the rest.

Grantaire.

Grantaire, the man who had venerated Enjolras as a god, called him Apollo and a marble statue, compared him to a French Revolutionary.

Grantaire, the man who had dared to contradict Enjolras.

It was Grantaire’s voice to cut through.

“Will the world remember you when you fall? Could it be your cause means nothing at all? Is your life just one more lie?”

_It was all red and black._

_Enjolras was facing down the barrel of several rifles. He couldn’t pick out time and place, but he knew that whatever revolt he had staged had ended badly._

_He also knew, somehow, that the rest of les Amis were dead._

_Enjolras was alone._

_He put on a brave façade, but inside he was trembling. He didn’t want to die alone, but all his friends were gone. He’d done this to them._

_He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping it wouldn’t hurt too much._

_Suddenly, a voice sounded, and Enjolras snapped his eyes open._

_Grantaire._

_He was still alive._

_Enjolras surreptitiously shook his head at him, as if to say, “Get out of here while you still can.”_

_The inky-haired cynic pushed his way through the gunmen, his gaze never once leaving the blonde’s face. Enjolras was surprised to see the way that the cynic’s eyes blazed._

_What was Grantaire doing?_

_“Two at one shot.” The corner of Grantaire’s mouth twitched up. If this were a film, he’d be saying, “If we live through this, I’ll follow you anywhere if you’ll let me.”_

_The cynic’s hand stretched towards Enjolras. “Do you permit it?”_

_Enjolras’ heart was bursting. He suddenly understood that the cynic loved him. Enjolras took Grantaire’s hand, a smile forming on his face. A smile that said, “I’d permit it.”_

_Focused on the hand in his, Enjolras didn’t see the fire of the guns. He didn’t feel the bullets forcing their way through his body._

_Instead, he saw the fire in the cynic’s eyes. Instead, Enjolras felt two distinct emotions. First, he felt regret; he would never be able to tell Grantaire that he felt…_

Enjolras shot straight up.

“I’ve killed him. Grantaire. No.”

No. Grantaire wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be. If Aire died, Enjolras wouldn’t have the opportunity to tell him how sorry he was, and how much he cared.

Was “care” the right word? Enjolras didn’t think so; what he felt for the artist ran too deep and was too powerful to be covered by the word “care.” However, the word that flitted into his brain was one he never thought he’d apply to Grantaire.

“Are you here for Grantaire?”

Enjolras’ head snapped up. “Is he alive?”

The kind looking nurse smiled. “Grantaire’s just woke up. Would you like to see him?”

Enjolras nodded emphatically. The nurse held out her hand, helping him to his feet. She noticed how the boy trembled.

“Sweetheart, are you alright?”

“I just…I need to see him. Please.”

The nurse nodded. “Come along.”

“Is he…did he say anything?”

The nurse chuckled as they stopped in front of a door. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

* * *

Grantaire was in a haze. His consciousness was draining from his body with the blood flowing from his wrists.

He smiled. All the pain would be over soon. He’d never have to hear the man he loved tell him how worthless he was.

Just as Grantaire was about to slip into darkness, an all too familiar voice called his name. His eyes, though only half open, could just make out a halo of blonde curls.

Oh, this was just not fair. He had done this to escape.

His dying self was annoyed until his head was moved onto… a pillow, maybe? He heard a voice plead, “Please. Don’t go.”

He tried to open his eyes a bit more. He saw Enjolras’ blue eyes, tears obscuring their bright color.

Just before he fell into the dark, Grantaire realized that his Apollo, Enjolras, wept for him. Grantaire wondered if the flowers at Delphi would bloom if Apollo wept.

* * *

 

Grantaire opened his eyes to a harsh light. “ _Ow_ ,” he thought. “ _I assumed there wasn’t pain in heaven. Crap. Maybe I’m in the other place. Or I’m in limbo_.”

“Please tell me I’m not a ghost,” he mused.

“No, you’re not a ghost,” a sweet voice assured him.

Grantaire’s eyes wheeled around until he laid eyes on a woman. He quickly scrutinized her attire; scrubs, sneakers, stethoscope. Oh, she was a nurse.

“Am I in the hospital?”

The nurse nodded. “A friend of yours found you. Would you like me to get him for you?”

“Uhh...sure.”

“I’ll be back in a minute, sweetie.”

Grantaire debated which one of his friends had found him. He vaguely remembered seeing well-known blonde curls and blue eyes before he blacked out.

No, that was impossible. Grantaire had probably been hallucinating.

He heard the nurse clear her throat, and he looked up.

“Apollo?” Okay, not hallucinating. He slowly sat up. “What are you doing here?”

Enjolras let out a strangled noise before darting forward to throw his arms around Grantaire. He sobbed into the artist’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry. Oh my god. You’re alive.”

Grantaire’s eyes were wide. Had Enjolras actually apologized to him? “Wait, what?”

Enjolras’ blue eyes were full of hurt, anger, and some emotion foreign to the revolutionary’s face. “I was wrong. I’ve always been wrong. You contribute more than anyone else. I couldn’t do what I do without you. I’ve been so stupid. And I…I don’t ever want you to think that I don’t want you around. No matter what I say. I want you there. I really do. It’s just that when I lose my temper, I say things without thinking and…”

“Apollo, you’re rambling. Take a deep breath, think about what you want to tell me, and then say it.”

Enjolras nodded, inhaling shallowly. He swallowed hard. He took a minute to compose himself, only to lose it again as soon as he opened his mouth. “You tried to kill yourself because of me,” he finally got out, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Hey,” Grantaire said. Enjolras began shaking again. “Hey. It’s okay. Come here.” Enjolras leaned into Grantaire’s chest. “I’m alive because you found me. You saved my life.”

“I wouldn’t have had to save it if I hadn’t hurt you in the first place,” Enjolras blubbered, his words muffled into Grantaire’s sternum.

Grantaire tried to raise a comforting hand to Enjolras’ hair, but instead yelped in pain.

Enjolras sat bolt upright. “Are you okay?”

“Moving my arms is going to be a bitch for a while,” Grantaire said, biting back the sting. “I’m fine, Apollo.”

Enjolras brushed an errant curl off of Grantaire’s forehead. “Do you forgive me,” the blonde asked finally.

Grantaire nodded. “I forgive you.”

“You realize I’m going to ask you that every day for the rest of forever,” Enjolras asked shyly.

Grantaire nodded, blushing. “I’ll always forgive you, Enjolras.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've never known anyone who attempted suicide, so I don't know if I've done this correctly. If you notice something I got wrong, please let me know. This came to me one night, and I felt the need to get it down. Tell me what you thought, good or bad.  
> You can find me on Tumblr here: http://thewriterinallofus.tumblr.com


End file.
